


Mycroft and Associate

by MemoryCrow



Series: Mycroft and Associate [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Jim Moriarty is a cock slut, M/M, Mild Smut, Sex Negotiation, Work relationship??, psycho flirtation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 19:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: *Moriarty has a proposal for Mycroft.*Mycroft blinked. “Surely you jest.”“No, in fact.”“You dirty buggar.”





	Mycroft and Associate

“You buggar,” Mycroft said.

He was taken aback, his eyes a little wide. Otherwise, he practiced control, as always. Distance. He reviewed things from the perspective of a bird of prey; here is the big picture, zoom in on the details.

At the moment, it was an act. He was badly taken off guard. He stared at Moriarty who briefly bit his bottom lip, then grinned.

Mycroft blinked. “Surely you jest.”

“No, in fact.”

“You dirty buggar.”

Moriarty ducked his head in a bashful way, grin still in place. He did not blush.

“You want me to conspire against my brother.” Really, that came as no surprise. It was not the thing that had him flustered.

Moriarty waved a hand, an old biddy gesture of _oh, pshaw_. “ _Conspire_.” Eyes wide. “That’s overblown, don’t you think. I’m just asking that you allow me a bit of freedom, look the other way. Nothing untoward, my dearest Holmes.”

That voice. Oddly deep, a bit modulated and yet it seemed to swallow itself. It lacked the clipped, brisk cadence of Mycroft’s familiar world.

Mycroft continued to stare, considering what a ‘bit of freedom’ might mean to one such as Jim Moriarty. Why was he entertaining this at all? Oh, yes. It was the other bit, the surprising bit. Tit for tat.

Bracing himself, he said, “And you want me to allow this freedom in exchange for… your… “ No. He couldn’t say it.

Moriarty once more feigned boyish bashfulness. He was neither, though boyishness – a stunting of spirit while his mind soared – permeated his being.

“For my very fond affections, darlin’,” Moriarty said, making his eyes into a puppy-like melt. It was Mycroft’s cue to laugh, to mock, but he could only look; wonderstruck.

 _Darlin_ ’. The peculiar, inward-winding voice licked about the word, an isle of trickster, city-dwelling faeries behind the accent. Faerie. Funny, considering.

“What on earth, Moriarty. Honestly. What makes you think I’d consider such a proposal?”

Standing, Moriarty began a slow tour of Mycroft’s warm and well-appointed study. A circling stroll; stalking his prey, Mycroft thought. The proposal was so outlandish, he felt certain he was the butt of a joke.

“Oh, it’s _you_ who makes me feel you’d consider. I mean, look at you. The state of you.”

Taking mild offense, Mycroft said, “I don’t know what you mean.” He had a treadmill and he used it, for heaven’s sake.

Moriarty picked up a knight from the chess board and waggled it at Mycroft. How was it, Mycroft wondered, that he managed to make the gesture so startlingly lewd? It was a gleam in his expression, a suggestion of a wicked tongue behind his teeth, lips slightly parted.

“You’re dying for it,” Moriarty said, not exactly unkindly; an observation. He returned the knight. “All button-up, button-down. Staring down the nose. Lonely man, wondering where your hair got off to. Too smart for much of anyone to keep up, aren’t you, then.” He grinned. “I can keep up, you know I can. Besides, I think you’re cute.”

A blush had begun a mortifying creep up Mycroft’s neck and into his cheeks at the opening sentence. _You’re dying for it_. Was it so obvious? Was loneliness so obvious? The blush intensified, worry seeping into Mycroft’s shrewd eyes as Moriarty concluded his tour at Mycroft’s chair.

Mustering a calm, derisive air, Mycroft said, “Cute?” He cleared his throat, almost a cough. He was fairly certain that nothing about his person could or should be defined as ‘cute’.

 _Plop_. Moriarty was suddenly on his lap. As was said in America, it cut through the bullshit. Mycroft drew back, recoiled. Moriarty touched fingertips beneath Mycroft’s chin and gave a look of longing that was so over-the-top, Mycroft felt sure a punchline was forthcoming. It would be unpleasant.

“Cute, yes. In that egghead, Professor Lupin, the Bruce Banner of civilized werewolves way. And that enormous forehead, all that frontal lobe.” Moriarty put his hand to his mouth in a scandalized gasp. “It’s so _big_.”

You’re one to talk, Mycroft thought. He could say it, as flip as Moriarty. _Your forehead is bigger than your wee body, you derelict imp_. But dare he? It sounded flirtatious in his head; he might inadvertently smile should he speak the words. Disastrous, with this malign elf on his lap.

“Look, get up. Get up and behave, proper.”

Moriarty sighed. It was a swoony sigh, a brief heave-up and then slouching of shoulders. He pouted.

“That’s just dreamy, Mycroft. Just what I need, a straight-laced authority ( _ah-tor-reh-tee_ ) to take me in hand.” Shaking his head, _tsking_ , he added, “I’m such a wreck. No control, whatsoever.”

“Yes, and all broken-up about it, clearly.”

Moriarty… _cuddled_ up to Mycroft. Mycroft turtled his head into its shell and, as noted, stared down his nose. He created extra chins. Moriarty’s head tucked to his shoulder, torso too close to his own. An alarming squirm began to insinuate, Moriarty’s bum to Mycroft’s groin.

“Good God, man,” Mycroft muttered. How to get out of this? Why did he not simply remove the pooka, the leprechaun? Pick it up by its scruff and toss it out the door.

Moriarty hummed, _A kiss is just a kiss._

The fundamental things apply. Hmm. What were they? Mycroft took a few deep breaths, staring at the room, his gaze going over Moriarty’s head. He said, “This is absurd. At any rate, I’m not standing by while you do any sort of harm to Sherlock, no matter how small or _untoward_.”

Moriarty uncuddled, somewhat. The squirm – it had to be admitted, the _grind_ – continued. Fingers once more at Mycroft’s face, Moriarty said, “You’ve a very nice chin.” The delivery; that sincere pout, forehead rumpled. It was a little unnerving.

“To go with my forehead, yes. You’re deeply moved by brains and bones.” And bombs. International espionage and high stakes fuckery. Exotic weaponry. Riddles wrapped in mysteries inside of enigmas, as old Winston used to say. Perhaps they had a thing or two in common. “Get up off my lap this instant, or I shall have you removed.” By what method?

For a moment, Moriarty tucked his lips between his teeth. His eyes, the darkness in them surprisingly deep, mused over Mycroft’s face.

“Oh, you don’t want me to get up,” He chided, voice low. “I can _feel_ that, my dear Mycroft.”

It was horrifying. Be-suited buttocks in a frank lap dance of sorts. Mycroft’s cock, unable to act correctly given the shock of such close contact. He tried his best to keep his expression neutral, merely observant. His breath had become shallow; Moriarty could in no way miss the thing that had become a hard ridge, awake and responsive to the shifting of hips, the closeness of bodies.

“See?” Moriarty smiled, sing-song. “Dying for it.”

“Hardly.”

“ _Hard_.” Moriarty leered. “There are things I like, you know, aside from brains and bones.”

“Murder? Mayhem?”

“Oh, sweetheart. You’ll make me blush. How kind of you to pay attention to me, to take notice. However, I was referring to cock.”

Oh, good Lord.

“I like it,” Moriarty affirmed, face boyish once more. “A very lot. You could be the beneficiary of my lubricious fancy.”

“Heaven save me from the day I become Jim Moriarty’s beneficiary.”

“You wound me. But… your cock. It has other thoughts in this regard.”

“It doesn’t _think._ It’s astoundingly stupid. Easily led. Don’t take it personally.”

Moriarty gave a little eye-roll, another old-biddy gesture; _pft_. He took one of Mycroft’s hands in both of his and Mycroft watched, feeling as dull and stupid about the frontal lobe as a cock. Moriarty felt over his hand; bones, tendons. He traced lines on the broad palm and stroked the length of long fingers, lushly suggestive. He kissed the palm, a warm nuzzle of lips to highly sensitized skin, and Mycroft felt his breath arrest. His chest grew tight. Beneath Moriarty’s bum, his cock throbbed, an alarm throughout his lower belly. Moriarty looked up at him, putting off heat. At last, he colored.

“Big hands,” he murmured.

He brought Mycroft’s hand to his face again, and sucked deeply on a forefinger. His eyes held Mycroft’s. His head made a slow bob.

Mycroft was coming undone. He stared, body passive but for his unruly cock. He felt heat at his chest, his face, where his lap connected to Moriarty. His lips parted, overly sensitive, suffused with blood. His mind rushed.

 _No, no, no_. Don’t do this, don’t go down this path. Do not engage with the psychopath – well, too late, there. The thoughts and images that sprang to mind surprised him, things he hadn’t considered in years. Misbehavior in an all-boys school, long since dismissed in the wake of women, and then the all-consuming nature of his work.

He remembered, now. His body remembered. The shock and then intense relief of lips pressed together, the sheer, nearly panicked greed of bodies that moved together, trying to find where the feeling was most heightened. How surprising was the feeling of tongues touching, the heat of fingertips on skin, the scent of arousal… all of it escalated by fear. Fear of being caught, fear that – at any moment – the other boy would call him out, say it was all a joke. Or simply move on; get a girlfriend and grow out of the hunger, the need of the one left behind, desperate and aching. Alone.

It was a similar feeling and caused a time travel whip-lash, Moriarty on his lap, sucking the heat from his fingers like a needy, cold-riven ghost. Was it a game, a jest? Could he bear for it to stop? And yes, fear. Fear of anyone, _anyone_ discovering this… the question of sexuality fell far behind the taboo and danger of the crime lord, seemingly a kitten on his lap, but a predator all the same. Fear of what any small allowance, lack of vigilance might mean for Sherlock. Fear of missing Moriarty’s inevitable loophole, wherein he would expose all and gain a permanent upper hand. Or worse.

Feeling every ounce the hypocrite, Mycroft said, “You’re making quite a fool of yourself, Moriarty.”

Moriarty let his fingers go and Mycroft missed the warm, cock-pulsing suck upon the instant. His cock wept. “Oh… you haven’t seen the half of it,” Moriarty said, voice husky and eyes rather unfocused. The pout of his mouth, the darkness and drama of his eyes made devilry within Mycroft.

Moriarty placed Mycroft’s hand on his crotch, still holding Mycroft’s eyes with his own.

“There.” He panted a little. ” _Now_ , I’ve acted the fool.”

Disarmed, dismayed, Mycroft felt his hand grasp. It was as if by instinct, a reflex of his long fingers. Moriarty’s cock was as hard as his own, angling up to one hip-bone. His compass was oriented north-east. Mycroft’s hand grasped, squeezed. He felt fuzzy-headed, trapped in a heat mirage. Moriarty made a subtle thrust into his hand, sooty eyelashes a shadow against his cheeks.

“I don’t believe you don’t want it.”

Well, no bloody wonder Moriarty didn’t believe it. It wasn’t believable. Mycroft could plainly see he’d lost all credibility.

Hanging onto a thread, he said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing anything against Sherlock. I won’t turn my back while you hatch whatever it is you brood over.”

Moriarty made a frustrated growl. He stood, leaving Mycroft bereft. A rush of cool air assaulted him, then was snuffed out as Moriarty re-positioned himself in a straddle over his lap. The heat mirage was back; Mycroft could approach nothing like clear thought.

“Never mind little brother.” Moriarty huffed. “Events have escalated, stars have realigned. Tides have turned. A fat woman is singing.”

With that, his mouth was on Mycroft’s. Mycroft felt his arms clasp around the odd perpetuator of horror and bloodshed who rocked on his lap; his first true action since the onslaught began its creep. His mouth opened, his second action, and he felt a long moan pushed from the place of stinging pain that was his chest. Breath rushed in, relief. It was true relief, deliverance. His tongue met with Moriarty’s, mouths hungry; all was lost

 

 

“You smell good,” Moriarty said. “Like expensive cologne, sort of faded when you walk into a fancy shop. That and cigarettes. And books. You smell like someone who’s always had money.”

Mycroft huffed a small laugh, puffing out cigarette smoke. He handed the cigarette to Moriarty, who lay on his side, eyes roving over Mycroft’s long body. One of Moriarty’s hands moved up and down Mycroft, torso to abdomen and back, fingertips light.

Mycroft goose-bumped, nipples hardening. He looked at Moriarty and could only see something feral. What he scented was warmth, sex; so strange on someone who’s mind he’d often found cold. Moriarty’s scent, now mingled with his own, was dark. Dark like his eyes, the blood swell of his lips, his sleeping cock. His dark hair, combed neatly back at the start, was mad-cap and wild. It betrayed a fae in the woodpile.

He hated to think on the state of his own hair, its hairline far more receded than Moriarty’s. That bit in the middle, not quite a widow’s peak, was likely as ruffed-up as happened in sleep. The person he saw in the mirror each morning looked befuddled and doddering.

Moriarty’s hand moved down, low. It pet its way through pubic hair and fondled warmly at Mycroft’s cock. He had not lied; he had a lubricious fancy. It overrode the contract he’d attempted to put in place, though Mycroft had no doubt the matter would make a reappearance.

Things had happened, words had spilled out with the crashing of bodies, the meeting of muscle and bone that couldn’t compete with the sensory overload that was skin. It gave Mycroft pause.

 _Daddy_ , Moriarty said. What could Mycroft know of such a thing? Nothing. Once, a very misguided girl had tried him on as a father figure, and it hadn’t worked at all. He could only throw money at her and hope she’d go away. She embarrassed him deeply, seemingly willing to sacrifice intelligence for perpetual infancy. He’d felt a cliché and a buffoon.

Something had happened to him when Moriarty said it. Whatever it was Moriarty wanted, it wasn’t likely to be a care-taker. He’d said it in the thick of sex, desperate. Mycroft considered it might be the only time he would see Moriarty with his guard down. The relief, the deliverance Mycroft felt with the kiss seemed magnified tenfold for Moriarty during sex. His hands gripped the bedclothes, his eyes squeezed shut and his brow – smooth and untroubled for a frontal lobe full of such malevolence – grew veined and intense. A poetic skull, Jim Moriarty. He could be cradled in Hamlet’s hands.

Moriarty’s arms and legs had gripped him close, hips rising to meet his own. The tight squeeze on Mycroft’s cock became enough to cause explosions in Mycroft’s head, and it was then Moriarty gasped, _daddy_!

How passive Mycroft was being, _had_ been, through the entire exchange. He was the one on top, but it could hardly be said he was in charge. He watched himself grow hard in Moriarty’s hand. He watched the fae form that was Moriarty, the pale and dark of his nakedness.

Maybe _daddy_ arose simply because he was older. There was less than ten years between them, but he had known and unknown parts of British Government behind him; it inclined one to gravity. And, he was bigger. He was a good bit taller than Moriarty. While not a man of brawn, his was wider at shoulder and longer of limb. As strange as the encounter had been, it had felt natural to roll them over, to be on top. To penetrate.

What was nagging at him, now, was a notion of connection. He had Sherlock, he had family. In dealing with Moriarty, Sherlock would always be a liability, a point of vulnerability. Someone to keep out of the line of fire; his quietly wild little brother who saw so much.

What of Moriarty? Had he family? Was there a parent, a sibling? Was there a duped and bewildered housemate, along the lines of John Watson? Was there, heaven help the sod, a lover? (Was that he, himself? Was he the sod?)

Mycroft found he couldn’t imagine any of it. For all of his vast connectedness, intel, he knew very little of Moriarty on a personal level. If he had family, a lover, it was a well-guarded secret.

“I love your cock,” Moriarty murmured. That voice.

Well, he had focus. He could be quite single-mined, a dog with a bone. He’d shown this doggedness in less pleasant arenas. Mycroft’s cock had not been handled, put on display and admired in quite some time; he had to admit, it was rather nice. He felt a bit prideful about the appendage, long and healthy-looking, blushing under Moriarty’s attention.

Moriarty climbed atop, straddled again. He was hard as well, different in shape and color from Mycroft. A poisonous mushroom, a wicked plum. He rubbed himself against Mycroft, his mouth a teasing nuzzle at Mycroft’s ear. His scent; not posh. He was a faun, his hair twisting its way into horns. He smelled of chai spices and tree bark.

“Are you pleased with this new association?” he asked, his voice soft at Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft moved his hands up and down Moriarty’s back. Warmth. Hard nubs of spine, a ladder of ribs, a sudden, hand-filling lushness at hip and arse.

“Mm,” Mycroft said, uncertain.

At the moment, yes. He was pleased. Well pleased. The body against his felt like warm cashmere. The mouth, kissing down his neck, under his chin, woke sparks in his body. How easily that mouth could open wide, bite into the jugular. Maniacal little vampire.

He wanted to get inside, again. To feel the shockingly hot squeeze of it and witness Moriarty coming apart. To hear the stop-start, then acceleration of breath, cries. To hear Moriarty say _harder_ and _daddy_ , and to see the arc of his body when ropes of come spurted from his cock.

But that was the moment. A kiss is just a kiss. They were both men of logic, though Mycroft suspected Moriarty had leaps of intuition that rivaled those of Sherlock. Oh, it was seductive. The mystery of Jim Moriarty, his shadowy background and often unknowable agenda. It was seductive to roll over, to top such a creature and watch it become pliant for him. To watch it need him.

Mycroft suspected the lifespan of such a coupling to be short. He blocked the thought, for the time being. He wanted repetition. He wanted more of the feral and secretive person who writhed in his bed.

Kissing, feeding on lips and breath, he murmured, “Yes. Yes, I’m pleased.”

 

 


End file.
